


memory

by kidcomrade



Category: Killer7
Genre: Gen, endgame spoilers yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcomrade/pseuds/kidcomrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Within you, ever so quietly, evil had opened its eyes." -Harman Smith / Garcian sees things; Mills notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	memory

There are days that Garcian Smith sees memories.

They’re memories that he doesn’t remember having, but they’re awfully poignant things— things he feels he should or  _needs_ to remember— and they crop up in the back of his mind so suddenly, too suddenly. They’re like flashbulbs going off, and they’d leave spots and stars behind his eyes with their startling brightness if he was a lesser man.

He doesn’t like them.  (He sees a child running, expression blank and unreadable but somehow fierce.) They’re manageable enough, but they hover about his head like so many insistent, buzzing flies, and he sees no use for them in the first place.  Where’s the good in these nonsensical fragments?  His time is  better spent discussing his assignments with Mills or conversing with the Master.  The memories are nothing more than a bother to Garcian in the end. They’re much too distracting when he should be focusing on his work and on his work alone.

And then, sometimes, the people in his memories call him names he doesn’t know.  
  
But Garcian shrugs these off, of course; perhaps it’s the memories from the other personae bleeding into his own thoughts. After all, there are quite a lot of them in Master Harman’s head, and seven minds can hold quite a few things. And when all seven are hardened killers, it isn’t any wonder that the contents would be at least a little dubious.  (That child has a gun in his hand. He screams like an animal he fires it—this must be his first time, his hands are shaking—the blood coats his hands and his eyes are blanker than the dead man’s—)

He only seems to get these flashes of memory when it’s inconvenient. When he needs to be working. They’re nuisances, really. But what’s most irritating is that his colleague  _notices_. It’s on these days that, standing on the overpass and leaning out, overlooking the afternoon traffic, Mills turns to him, stares for a moment, and frowns. Too knowingly, observes  Garcian. Mills often tells him that he needs to rest and relax.

“Y’know, Garcie, a vacation would do you a hell of a lot of good,” Mills says.  
  
But Garcian always makes a short grunt of distaste in the back of his throat. Now, of all times? A vacation? The Syndicate’s enjoying the most activity that it’s had in years and you’re suggesting a  _break_? If anything, he should be working twice as hard. He’s  _antsy_ , is what it is. (A school. Bodies. The halls soaked red.) The rest of the Smiths are antsy, too, trigger fingers itching for a fight, to leave the confines of Harman Smith’s head, to finally stretch wearied legs and find something to do. Something to shoot down.  
  
“I’d rather not,” he answers flatly.  
  
Mills shrugs—“whatever you say”—and finishes telling him the rest of the information for his next mission, handing him a dossier.  Garcian skims it. He’ll read it all more thoroughly soon. Right now, he can’t concentrate.

(The boy stares deep into the barrel of his own gun.  

His finger twitches.)

The memories are coming back again.

 


End file.
